


pillage

by deadlybride



Series: kink bingo fills [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, F/M, Non-Negotiated Kink, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 15:44:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15294759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Dean and Bela make a bet that Bela was always going to win. He comes to her Chicago flat to pay his forfeit.





	pillage

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 2018 SPNKinkBingo, filling the 'object insertion' square.

Bela has won some truly impressive wagers in her day—wagers in which millions of pounds and precious jewels and ancient artifacts have hung in the balance, not to mention lives—but this is perhaps the most exquisite forfeit she’s had the pleasure of taking. Not that she’ll tell him that, of course.

“Now, do try to remember our terms,” she says, letting her robe puddle down to the rug. Dean’s wearing a stony smirk but his eyes drop gratifyingly quickly. She smiles. Her chemise leaves just enough to the imagination. He’s certainly not getting any more. “Six hours. I get to do as I like. If you put up a white flag, I’m afraid I’ll take that as bad faith for our little bet, and I’ll have to claim something else as my forfeit. It won't be something you'll want to part with.”

His expression is all lazy confidence. “I can take anything you want to dish out, princess,” he says. His hands hang loose at his sides.

She raises her eyebrows, deliberately condescending, and like she has him on a switch his eyes narrow. So easy, this one. “We will see, won’t we,” she says, and then goes to the pretty little jewel of a clock on the parlor sideboard and sets the digital timer. Six hours. Plenty of time. He doesn’t know what he gave up. “It’s just gone half-seven,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear. “You’ll do as you’re told, won’t you.”

His eyes dart from the clock to her face. “Yes,” he says, jaw rigid.

She smiles at him. Such a pretty boy. “So obedient,” she says, almost chiding, and he shakes his head. She hums, and slips onto the settee, curling into one corner. “All right, then,” she says, nodding at him where he stands in the open entryway. “Strip. I want to see what I’m getting.”

He rolls his eyes, and shrugs off his filthy jacket, and holds it out at arm’s length before he drops it, insolently, to the polished walnut floor. Trying to get a rise out of her, the precious thing. He isn’t very good at it. Next he slowly unfolds the turned-up sleeves on his flannel, and just as slowly peels it off his shoulders. Bela props her chin on her fist, watching. Malicious compliance, this is called. She wonders if he knows the term; probably not. He hasn’t yet learned his place, but he will. They have so much time.

When they made that wager she could hardly believe her luck. Another foolish hard-jawed hunter trying to get one over on _her_. A simple enough bet, really, made when they ran into each other not too long after the incident with the ghost ship, in another American-old town full of money and secrets. Little brother had gone home from the bar in a huff and she and Dean had kept on drinking, firing insults at each other rather than have a civil conversation. They were there on the same job: a cursed bracelet. Very valuable, to the right kind of mind. It had the usual tedious history of death and misfortune, sordid stories, et cetera, and Dean had had his usual tedious reaction to her disinterest. What a monster she was. How heartless. Shouldn’t she—and so on. She wondered how he didn’t get bored of the same little opinions. Just to move things along she proposed a wager: if he found it first, he could destroy it and get what he wanted from her. If she found it first, she’d get to sell it and get what she wanted from him. _Is everything about money to you,_ he’d said. _Most things are,_ she’d said.

He’s peeling off his socks, not in any way that’s remotely appealing. He drops them to no-doubt stinking little balls on the rug and then he’s just left in his jeans. Sturdy Levis, a hole wearing into the right hip pocket where he keeps his car keys. “How’s it hanging over there, Bela?” he says, undoing his belt. “This getting those limey rocks off, or what?”

She doesn’t answer. His eyes dart up and then back down, smirk fading just a bit. He coils the belt up neatly, for some reason, and pokes it into the open mouth of one of those dirty boots. The cheap little amulet he's always wearing gets the same treatment. His hands are quicker, rougher, when they go to the button on his jeans, when they rip down the zip. He shoves his jeans and his boxers off his hips with both hands, ducking down to push them off his calves, and then he kicks the whole mess off to one side, stands there bare and defiant on her Persian with his hands on his hips, his face set in challenge.

She purses her lips, looks him deliberately up and down in such a way that he’ll see it. He really is lovely, in his own way. Not the chiseled massive beauty of his brother, or for that matter the various runway models and millionaire’s sons that she’s sampled before. Pale skin from too many nights spent digging up graves. He’s hard in some places, soft in others. Soft below, too, his pink cock laying quiet against his left thigh. Not just a little mouthful, and fine heavy sack to go with it; no wonder he lays on the smug when he can. That face, though. She looks at him, studying the light brows and the big pretty eyes, the plush plump of his lips.

“Am I just gonna be standing here for six hours?” he says.

Already uncomfortable. This really will be easy. She smiles at him, and crosses one leg over the other so it dangles off the settee, her toes just brushing the plush weave of the rug. “I haven’t told you to do anything else, have I?” she says, letting her voice go light. “Is this too much for you?”

He narrows his eyes, but he stays still. His hands drop to dangle over his thighs, then after a moment come back up to his hips. She’s left all the lamps on and the parlor’s full of a clear golden light, matched with a faint flickering from the fireplace, and it’s easy to tell when he starts to flush. He shifts his weight. A glance at the clock shows that just ten minutes have passed.

She wonders what he told Sam. How he managed to steer them so they’d be near enough to Chicago that he could sneak away to her flat for a night and watchful little brother wouldn’t notice. She stands up, at last, and walks around the coffee table, the wingback chairs, a wide circle that loops around where he's standing frozen on the rug. He keeps his eyes straight ahead. A fine pretty arse on him, too, the kind a woman could envy. She steps up behind him and trails one nail down the furrow of his spine, down and down until she's denting the skin just at the small of his back. He smells—end of the day strong, sweat and an edge of musk.

"Go over to the table," she says. "On your knees, facing it. Hands on your thighs."

He glances at her, frowning. "What, is it lashing time?" he says, mocking, but he goes, he sinks down to his knees on the carpet, arse on his heels, hands exactly where she told him.

Bela comes up beside him and runs her hand over his hair, like petting a dog. "I don't need commentary, darling," she says. Not sharply, but Dean's jaw ticks anyway. He looks up at her, eyes narrow, before she slides her hand down to the back of his neck and pushes, lightly. He follows her urging until he's bent over, his forehead on the edge of the coffee table, his back a pretty curve. She pats his bare shoulder. "I don't need to tie you, do I," she murmurs, and he takes a shuddery breath that visibly lifts his shoulders and says _no_.

She leaves him there. She doesn't move silently; why should she, in her own flat. She picks up his jeans and boxers and shakes them out, folds them neatly on the chair; the shirts she drapes over the chair back, and the big leather coat is hung on the rack, where a guest ought to leave it. On the sideboard she has a lovely tawny port decanted, breathing since this morning; she sits on the other chair, closer to the fire, and sips it while watching the flames flicker. It pairs nicely with a bite of dried apricot, flooding saliva under her tongue.

Dean's shoulders twitch. Twenty minutes, by the time she finishes her glass. He must be aching. Pain's not the point, of course; that would be obvious.

What on earth could he have thought he was getting into, accepting that wager. He had to have known she'd win, surely. While they worked their way through hacking into databases and impersonating law enforcement officials and handholding with witnesses, she followed the leads she already had, and with a tip from the spirit world made her way to the bracelet in less than a day. It was a nice little flicker of pleasure in the belly when they found her, spinning the silk bag around one finger. Of course they argued and threatened, and of course she neutralized the curse—what her buyer didn't know wouldn't hurt him, and it was part and parcel of dealing with the boy scouts. She still got her two hundred grand, and when Sam huffed out of the dusty mausoleum of the last victim's house she raised her eyebrows and named the time and place, and Dean gritted his teeth, but his eyes heated up, too.

She leaves her empty glass on the sideboard. In the kitchen she's prepared a wide shallow bowl of water and she carries it with the tray of tools and toys into the parlor, sets it beside Dean's surprisingly lovely feet on the carpet. "Up," she says, "on your back, on the table," and it takes him a moment but he lifts up, pushing himself over to sit and then laying down. His eyes are on the ceiling, his breathing slow. She smiles, where he can't see, and picks up the neatly rolled shaving kit. When she strops the straight razor he tenses, darts a look at her. She ignores him. The razor was already sharp enough, of course. She kneels at his feet and pushes his knees apart. He resists, just barely, but when she raises her eyebrows at him he parts his lips on a deep breath and then lets her move him. A nice open view: thighs wide open, cock and balls on full display. He takes decent care of himself—hair trimmed, nothing like the ridiculous bush some men think is acceptable—but this isn't about her preferences, not really.

"Don't move," she advises, quietly, while she uncaps the shaving foam. "I wouldn't want to nick anything precious."

The foam is thick, creamy, letting off a lovely lemongrass scent as she spreads it over her hands. Probably the nicest thing he'll ever have on his body. She's efficient as she smooths it over his lower belly where he's left the thin treasure-trail, over his groin, her hands brisk over his scrotum, nudging his cock out of the way. "Bela," he blurts out, squeezing his eyes closed.

She pauses. "No?"

Dean breathes, jerky, but doesn't say anything else. So predictable. It would be _wrong_ to go back on their deal, after all. He really ought to learn how to negotiate—but it's far too late for that.

She rubs her hands clean on the towel and picks up the razor, dragging it lightly along his thigh to let him know it's coming, before she spreads her free hand on his stomach and angles the razor and drags it in a slow scrape from his navel down to the root of his cock, the foam and hair piling up on the flat of the blade and leaving smooth clean skin behind. His hands clench tight on the edges of the coffee table. She swishes the razor clean in the bowl of water and wipes it on the towel.

"One down," Bela says, and Dean takes another shuddery breath. She runs one finger down the newly-clean skin on his belly, speaks low and easy. "I'll take care of it, darling. All you need to do is stay still. You can do that for me, can't you."

She draws a tiny circle with her finger, an inch above his cock, and watches the pink flush rise in his cheeks, on his throat. His teeth dig into his bottom lip, denting the fat swell of it, and his brow's a knot even with his eyes closed. Perfect.

She shaves him, neatly, nice even scrapes of the razor. No nicks—she's got more than enough control to make sure that doesn't happen. His thighs start to tremble before she's a quarter of the way done; when she finishes with the bare skin and takes his sack in gentle fingers his cock has already started to rise. She doesn't touch it more than necessary. She hardly needs to. She wets the razor, draws the skin on his scrotum taut, and oh-so-careful pulls the blade along the skin. His hands are so tight on the table edges that it looks painful.

When he's all bare on this side she wipes the razor clean, on the towel, and then wets the edge of it and dabs the foam away so he's free of residue. His cock lays heavy on his thigh, curved left, full and flushed. Something clenches in her, down deep. She reaches down and drags her thumb between her thighs, where she's blood-hot, and a little pulse of want resonates through her pussy, her insides clenching wantingly. That's for later, though.

"On your tummy, sweetheart," she says, and her voice might be a little throaty but she doubts Dean even notices. He blinks and looks down the stretch of his body at her. She raises her eyebrows, mild. "Time for the other side. We want you all clean, don't we."

He licks his lips. His hands drag up, helping to push him upright, and he looks down at his cock where it lolls flushed and big and his jaw works, for a moment. His face has gone dark red, the blush stained semi-permanent under his skin. She pats his flank, as she would a horse. "Come along," she says, but she doesn't move out of the way to make it easier. He drags in a breath and then awkwardly shuffles over, muscles working, and she guides with impersonal light touches until he's laid out on his stomach, his thighs spread out with the table edges biting into their tender insides. His sack lays plump on the tabletop, dark against the darker wood, and she runs her thumb along it and watches one of his testicles leap, shifting inside. Her pussy clenches again.

She's more thorough with the foam, this time. Lemongrass rises off of his warm flushed skin as she massages her thumbs into the crack of his arse, smearing over his perineum, slicking easy over the tight furl of his arsehole. He flinches, just lightly, the first time, but she keeps it up and he doesn't flinch again. He doesn't have much hair back here, but she does the whole thing anyway, pulling his cheeks apart to clean up the crack, getting the few hairs at the base of his sack she missed the first time around. Done, she dabs him clean again. Bare, Dean's even prettier. She spreads his cheeks wide, just looking, and his muscles don't clench in protest but his hole visibly does. She smiles.

When she stands up, she takes a moment. He's quiet, on the table. She fetches herself another port and stands with the back of her legs to the fire, enjoying the heat. It was a bit of a gamble, this—more of a gamble than the initial wager had been, by far. What a delicious, heart-thumping pleasure to be right, again.

A brush of fingers over his pink ear, and then a slipped-down gentle drag down his jaw, a tug at his chin, and he turns his head, lays his cheek flat on the table. She perches on the edge of the settee, rests the port on her knee. "You're doing so well, sweetheart," she says, soft, and his eyes scrunch tighter closed. She takes a sip, lets the warm rich flavor roll over her tongue, and then leans forward and presses the base of the glass on his shoulder blade. She pitches her voice low, soothing. "Shall I fuck you, Dean? Shall I let you eat me out? Shall I put my mouth on that pretty cock?"

His lips part, and his eyelids too—he blinks at her, heavy-eyed. Confused. He wasn't expecting this. Pain would have been easy. She's done that, of course, and the mental picture of Dean tied to the bare mattress in the guest room with clamps on his nipples and thighs and a cage on his cock was certainly tempting. Bela smiles at him, and swirls her forefinger into the glass of port, and then rubs the pad of her finger over his lips before she slips into his mouth. He parts for her, his tongue thick and wet, and sucks almost automatically. She drags her nail along his tongue when she pulls out, and holds his eyes when she reaches down and rubs the wet finger against his clean shaved hole.

"You're so sweet," she murmurs, and dips her head to press a kiss on one hot cheek. He didn't shave and the stubble prickles against her lips.

The oil is scented with basil and lemon, clean and soapy-sharp when she pours it over his arse. She gets two fingers into him and works them in slow, dragging pulses, forcing the muscle to loosen up around her knuckles. He's breathing harder but he's not making any noise. Bela sits on the edge of the table, at his side, her fingers working steady inside him, and watches his face.

"I knew it," she says, gentle. "The first time we met. How good you could be."

A pause. He doesn't respond. How deep he's fallen—she wonders if this is his first time, or if someone else has pulled him here. It hardly matters. She'll push him further. She's going to take everything.

She licks her lips and leans in a bit closer, her hair falling out from behind her ear. "Daddy's best little boy," she murmurs, just above a whisper, the dare of it thumping in her chest—and he only blinks, his eyes pooled out to black, his body a tight furl of heat around her fingers. Her pussy practically ripples. "So well-trained. You'll make a good trophy, sweetheart. How lucky they'll be to have you."

He doesn't respond, not that she was expecting him to, not at this point. She slides off the table and pulls her fingers out of his body. There's a long string of pearls coiled on the tray and they rattle gently when she drags them off, letting them lightly clack together. She bought them especially for this, with the money from the man who bought the bracelet. Not too much time left, to spend the fortune she's amassed. She might as well have some fun with it.

Dean shivers, abrupt and hard, when she dangles the pearls down his spine, and twitches when she trails them along his thighs, up against the crack of his arse. He's wet, hot and open, when she presses two fingers against his hole, and the first pearl slips inside with hardly a moment of resistance.

"So good," she says, again, and this time she doesn't care if Dean hears the edge in it. The spirits say so many things, if you ask just the right way. Self-righteous hunter Dean Winchester, dripping with machismo and superiority, whose soul is damned to hell just as surely as hers. She pushes in more pearls, his hole spasming under the steady slip of them. Trafficking with witches and demons and soothsayers as she has since she was a girl, Bela has heard so many things about the afterlife. About the things they do to a soul, there.

Just a few inches of pearls left, the remains of the necklace spilling lewdly out of his hole. She licks her lips, then swats Dean's arse, the plump of it rippling beautifully under the strike. "Up, on your knees," she says, voice hard, and he makes a sound, finally—deep in his chest, not a moan or even a whimper, but he sluggishly drags himself up, gets one knee and then the other on the table, and drops down to his elbows when she slaps between his shoulder blades. A push and he's teetering, his knees on the farthest edges of the table, and the pearls swing between his thighs, wet where the oil has smeared. His cock hangs down hard and dark with blood, his sack heavy. Just a few twists, and she loops the string of pearls around, cruelly tight at the base of his balls, around the root of his pretty cock.

She steps back when she's done, wipes her hands free of oil on the towel. She picks up the old-fashioned Polaroid camera and snaps a picture. "There," she says. Camera set aside, with the blackmail she'll hold onto just in case—she steps forward, lets her hips press against his spread thighs, tucks two fingers under the taut strand of pearls and tugs. Dean makes that noise again, punched from the base of his belly.

Five months. She'll be in hell before he will. Bela doesn't know what he made his deal for, and she doesn't care. The last demon she talked to had the body of a woman, tall and smiling, and she'd leaned down to speak in Bela's ear and told her all about how a human soul got spread on the rack, how the demons would have their fun. The most fun, the demon said, was when a human thought it couldn't be broken. How fun it was to prove them wrong.

She tugs again at the very expensive leash she's attached to Dean's cock and balls and watches his shoulders flinch, his body arching under her grip. A glance at the clock: "Four hours left," she says. His back expands on a deep breath. He has freckles on his shoulders. She drags her teeth over her lip and says, evenly, "On your back, baby. I'm going to use you up."

He struggles over. His eyes are almost vacant. His cock rises foolishly eager above his hips and she lifts up the hem of her chemise, kneels up on either side of him and sinks down onto it, with a long sigh. Oh, yes. Thick, almost stinging despite all her wet. She grinds down to the base and smiles when the pearls crush up against her lips. She leans forward and puts her hand around his throat, just lightly, but enough to get his attention. He blinks at her. "Be a good boy," she says, "and I'll let you come."

Dean lays his hands flat on her thighs, nodding. She smiles. He's so out of it he doesn't know she's lying. Hours left. The demons will be getting a nice broken-in product. She hopes they'll thank her, when it's time. A tiny bit of credit against the long list of debits. On the other hand—she draws up a few inches, lets the thick meat of him pull out of her until her thighs are quivering with the want of it, and then works her way back down, the slowest possible tease. Dean pants up at her. Delicious. Who cares what the demons get; this is _hers_.

The camera, hidden in the mirror above the sideboard, has an eight-hour memory card. Perhaps she'll send him the video, when she's done. It's nice to imagine him wanking, miserably, forced to think of her. Her pussy clenches, involuntarily, and Dean moans, his pretty mouth parted wide.

"Hold on," she murmurs, stroking a thumb over his lips. "I'm not nearly done." She's going to break him apart.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this picture](https://78.media.tumblr.com/ec82a145fe578d1c17046dc0e4571a07/tumblr_nvdi44NQgn1t12hgvo1_500.jpg).
> 
>  
> 
> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/175901671064/pillage)


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